


Mackie's Back in Town

by Akoya8



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Assassins & Hitmen, F/M, Knife Violence Lots of Knife Violence, Littlefinger Would Burn The Kingdom To Be King Of The Ashes, Past Rape/Non-con, Protege Sansa, Sansa is Lady Stoneheart, Various Cities Acting As Training Grounds For Sansa, mack the knife
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-09
Updated: 2019-06-26
Packaged: 2020-02-29 05:56:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18772600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Akoya8/pseuds/Akoya8
Summary: Petyr Baelish, known in certain circles as Baelish the Blade, has returned to King's Landing. His client is unknown, but they've taken a contract out on Alayne Stone, but Petry isn't a heartless assassin. He always gives his victim the chance to offer him something better. Alayne Stone doesn't have much, but she's got a burning desire to topple Westeros' government and get revenge on those who wronged her.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own The Threepenny Opera, A Song of Ice and Fire, or Game of Thrones, but I do use them to my own nefarious ends. 
> 
> To those of you that want to know the status on Cruelty...I still have every intention of finishing it. Eventually. Don't worry, I won't forget you!

 

Und der Haifisch, der hat Zähne

und die trägt er im Gesicht

-“Die Moritat von Mackie Messer” by Bertolt Brecht

 

* * *

The almost dead man struggled in Petyr’s hold, but his struggling made the knife slip deeper between his ribs, punching out a gust of air that wheezed against the fingers covering his mouth. Blood seeped out around the blade, running down already sodden clothes. Petyr twisted the knife a little, found a better angle, and pushed again. The body in his arms shuddered once, as if in ecstasy, then collapsed. He let the now dead man fall to the cobblestones beneath his feet.

 

Petyr checked his gloves in the moonlight that shone over the alley. Seeing no blood, he tugged his cuffs back down and straightened his tie. The contract had specified painful and messy, but that didn’t mean his wardrobe had to suffer for it.

 

Finished with his brief toilette, Petyr fished his mobile out of his pocket and thumbed over to the camera. He angled it at the body, making sure the flash was on, and took a photo. He sent the message along with his compliments and a string of numbers. Seconds later, a notification flashed across the top of his mobile screen, an update from one of his accounts. 25,000 dragons richer, he strode out of the alley, whistling “Jenny of Oldstones.”

 

There was something about King’s Landing, he mused, something about the quality of its people.

 

He’d seen the world, killed people in every corner of it (most for profit, but some others had just had it coming), but he relished coming back to King’s Landing for a job. The people here were pillow-soft, the sensation of stabbing them was akin to the feeling of punching a downy cushion. And they were so _offended_ when he killed them, positively aghast that anyone would want them dead. They would barter, beg, and grovel at him, but he had standards. If they doubled, or tripled, what he was being offered to kill them, he’d let them go and he’d visit death upon the person who had originally hired him. That particular personality trait of his was well-known to potential employers, so they typically made sure that they offered him the most money up front.

 

“Jenny of Oldstones” became “Baelish the Blade” as he slid behind the wheel of his unobtrusive sedan, parked just a few streets away from the recently deceased Shadrich Glen.

 

It wasn’t far from these alleys, after all, that the song had been born.

 

Once Petyr had discovered the author of the ballad, he’d paid them a visit. After a scant hour under Petyr’s knife, the broken man had given up his source. The answer hadn’t been a surprise (the unhappy customer was a few days dead, of an apparent suicide, and Petyr had every expectation that the bloody water of her bath would soon drip its way into the flat below hers if it hadn’t already), but Petyr did like to make sure that his loose ends were neatly tied. It was too late to stop the song from spreading through the underbelly of King’s Landing and from there, the rest of the world, but now it would seem like one of those urban legends that had a tendency to spring up around bodies. Baelish wasn’t an uncommon surname, thank the gods for that, and the song did a serviceable job of enhancing his reputation among those that would avail themselves of his skills.

 

Baelish the Blade is back in town, Petyr thought, a shark-like grin stretching his lips as he drove through the night-layered city.

 

* * *

 

And the shark, he has teeth;

he has them in his face.

https://lyricstranslate.com/en/die-moritat-von-mackie-messer-ballad-mack-knife.html


	2. Chapter 2

und Macheath, der hat ein Messer,

doch das Messer sieht man nicht.

-“Die Moritat von Mackie Messer” by Bertolt Brecht

 

* * *

 

 

“Who’s the target?”

 

“Alayne Stone. Sending the specifics now.”

 

“How much?”

 

“My client is offering 50,000 dragons. Should you encounter any difficulties, they will reimburse you accordingly.”

 

“You’ll be hearing from me.”

 

The line went dead, and Petyr began doing his homework.

 

Alayne Stone, 23, single and seemingly free of familial attachments. A quick search on the internet revealed that she had no online presence, which was odd for a woman of her age (in this present era, anyway).

 

The picture in the file was grainy, likely some hastily snapped shot on a mobile, but she was undeniably lovely. Her skin pale next to her dark hair, and such bright blue eyes. In another life, Alayne Stone would have been revered for her beauty, set up in some tower far away from the unwashed, cretinous inhabitants of King’s Landing.

 

But in this life, someone wanted Alayne Stone dead, and they were willing to pay handsomely to see her pretty throat slit.

 

...

 

Alayne Stone was wary of routines, frequently varying her routes and habits and was consistently aware of her surroundings. No hoods to block her peripheral vision and no headphones concealing approaching footfalls. Petyr had seen streetwise whores exercise less caution in their nightly outings than Alayne Stone did in venturing out for a coffee at a nearby café.

 

Her studious dedication to evasiveness intrigued him, excited him, made the task of gathering intelligence about her enjoyable rather than tedious. Petyr loathed tediousness, had quite often grown bored with his current marks, speeding up the process of liquidating them because it meant he could move on to something potentially more interesting (he remained ever optimistic about his job). But Alayne Stone was a true delight. Imperfect, yes (though she skirted alleys, she didn’t avoid them; her heels were practical, but still too much to run in should the need arise), but delightful all the same. He was looking forward to getting to know her on a more personal level. 

 

...

 

“Sorry, but I think you gave me the wrong drink? I had the tall caramel macchiato with a shot of espresso. I think this is just a dark roast,” Alayne Stone spoke apologetically to the beleaguered barista.

 

“Gods, sorry about that, I think I must have mixed it up with—”

 

“Me,” Petyr smoothly interjected, moving closer to Alayne. “For a moment, I had an identity crisis, but it passed and I was wondering what life would be like as an Alan. I’d already picked out a new business card, but if you’re willing, I’ll trade with you. I’m rather partial to my given name.”

 

He could tell that Alayne was fighting back a surge of anxiety. She wasn’t used to interacting spontaneously, but society’s conditioning was hard to break, and she smiled at him shyly, reaching out to pass him the dark roast with his name on it.

 

“I’m sorry,” she said, “but I did take a drink. I don’t have a cold, or anything, I swear by the old gods and the new!” P

 

etyr exchanged cups with her, allowing a warm smile of his own. “I’m game if you are, Alan, I’m afraid I also took a drink of yours. I’d offer you the same assurances, but I just got over the most dreadful bout of plague, positively ghastly it was!”

 

That got a small laugh, and she took her cup of saccharine insanity from him, saying, “It’s Alayne, actually, not Alan.”

 

“Ah, well, I’d wondered, but I’m not one to judge. Please, call me Petyr.” 

 

* * *

 

 

And Macheath, he has a knife,

but no one sees the knife.

https://lyricstranslate.com/en/die-moritat-von-mackie-messer-ballad-mack-knife.html


	3. Chapter 3

Und es sind des Haifischs Flossen

 

rot, wenn dieser Blut vergießt

 

-“Die Moritat von Mackie Messer” by Bertolt Brecht

 

* * *

 

 

Alayne Stone reacted predictably to his staged encounter in the café, that is, she avoided it for the week following. Instead of the corner café, Alayne would jump on the Dragon line that was close to her flat and ride it to the Guildhall shops (which were always teeming with the somnambulant sheep of the city), but she always grimaced over the cups of coffee the baristas in Flaming Beans handed her. One afternoon, he chanced a quick cup of dark roast after Alayne had left the café, knowing he had about five minutes before she set off back towards the tube. The coffee he was given barely deserved the name; its natural bitterness was completely overwhelmed by the burnt flavor of a pot left on too long.

 

For the rest of the week, he brought along his own coffee.

 

Even in this part of the city, there was no one who recognized her, who called out her name in greeting. The file had stated no family or friendly connections, but he had to make sure. For 50,000 dragons, he had to know that there would be no one to miss Alayne Stone except those that wanted her dead.

 

Still, the more he followed her, the more he came to admire her caginess, her studied disinterest in her surroundings that was betrayed by the quick movement of her eyes darting back and forth. All the signs of trauma were there, the history of it was likely writ into the stones of the city by now, and yet, she’d stayed. Stayed in this city of blood and death and pain and clawed out a shadowy life for herself as one of its millions of anonymous inhabitants. Petyr could already feel himself beginning to miss her.

 

Having spent the better part of a moon following her around Flea Bottom (how his feet had welcomed its cracked pavements!), and what few parts of the city she had deigned to visit outside of her job (she worked odd days at a chippy down the street from her flat, took in laundry, and did some mending), Petyr resolved to do the job in her flat.

 

It wasn’t his first preference. Alleys and dark corners worked well for dead bodies, especially in King’s Landing where they never stayed in possession of their goods for very long after Petyr had done for them. Killing her in her flat would require additional preparations and possibly mood lighting.

 

* * *

 

And the shark's fins are

 

red when he sheds blood;

 

https://lyricstranslate.com/en/die-moritat-von-mackie-messer-ballad-mack-knife.html


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to give you all a heads up: we're about to veer (slightly, maybe a bit more) into the absurd, but, hopefully, it will be tasteful and evoke notes of chocolate, mint, and John Wick.

 

Mackie Messer trägt 'nen Handschuh

drauf man keine Untat liest.

-“Die Moritat von Mackie Messer” by Bertolt Brecht

 

* * *

 

 

Petyr chose to enter her flat whilst she was out. It felt a bit strange, lying in wait for her, when normally at this time of afternoon he’d be following her as she made her way to the grocer’s or the chemist’s. He shook the feeling off and got to work. Alayne Stone was about to be murdered by a low-rent criminal and staging the scene would take a deft hand and an attentive mind. Of course, there was always the chance that she would have a tempting counter-offer…

 

Still, idle hands and all that.

 

Petyr hummed quietly as he unmade her bed, tearing here and there at her previously neat sheets. There’d be blood on them soon enough, but the Stranger was in the details. From the bag he brought in with him, he pulled out a container of semen (not his own, of course, but one he’d managed to painstakingly liberate from his erstwhile fall guy) and casually tossed it over the sheets in a mimicry of wanking. The scene of Alayne Stone’s death would be that of a sex crime; distasteful, yes, but it would hardly be surprising. Petyr was taken aback by the sudden tightening of his stomach at the thought of her beautifully dead corpse smeared in the leavings of some Flea Bottom trash.

 

He shook the sensation off as he continued to dispense the DNA trail. And despite its unpleasantness, the absurdity of the action forced a chuckle out of him.

 

Once done, he stepped back from the bed to inspect the piece as a whole, checking himself before he knocked into the small loveseat that served as the centerpiece of the flat. Her little studio flat felt close around him, but in a way that was comfortable, rather than smothering. It was tastefully appointed, which didn’t surprise him. Alayne was a careful woman, liked pretty things, but was willing to hunt for a bargain. He’d witnessed surprising acts of ruthlessness from her as she haggled someone down to a more reasonable price.

 

Defiling her bed (and eventually, her) with the spendings of some gutter trash was far from ideal, but she’d forced him to go to these lengths.

 

If only she weren’t doomed to die in the next hour, he wondered, what might she become?

 

Behind him, the deadbolt turned.

 

She was early, but he was more than prepared for her. Some of the finer details could wait until she was dead.

 

Petyr slipped into a shadowy corner, knowing he’d have to move fast once she was through the door. By the grace of the Smith, her head was down as she came through, turning to shut the door behind her and throw the bolt back into place.

 

Silent as the Stranger, Petyr swept up behind her, jerking her head back into his chest as he settled one hand over her mouth while the other brought a knife to her throat.

 

“Shh, sweetling, we wouldn’t want to disturb the neighbors,” he admonished her lightly.

 

Alayne trembled in his arms. No sudden movements from her, no frantic breaks for the door. She still had the results of her shopping clutched in one hand, the other was wrapped around his knife hand (not the wrist, how strange, he thought). Her fingers settled around his own, her nails pricking slightly as they readied to dig in.

 

“Hmm, aren’t you quite the surprise, Alayne. Now, I’m going to let you go for a moment—no, when I’m ready, sweetling, and we’re going to keep our voices low. We’ve reached the negotiation stage of our relationship, and I do hope you’ve got something to barter with, or else it will be a very short relationship indeed. On the count of three, I’m going to let you go. Are you ready?”

 

Her head gave the smallest of nods, ever mindful of his blade.

 

“Right. One… Two… Three.”

 

She released his knife hand as he dropped the other from her mouth. Slowly, as if she was wary of startling him, she turned, eyes widening as she took him in.

 

“…Petyr?”

 

“Sweetling, you remembered; I’m flattered! Now then, what is your opening bid?”

 

* * *

 

Mack the Knife wears a glove

on which no sign of a crime can be seen.

https://lyricstranslate.com/en/die-moritat-von-mackie-messer-ballad-mack-knife.html


	5. Chapter 5

An der Themse grünem Wasser

fallen plötzlich Leute um

-“Die Moritat von Mackie Messer” by Bertolt Brecht

 

* * *

 

 

“Who hired you to kill me?”

 

“Hmm, that’s quite a mind you have, sweetling; I could just be here to rape and kill you for my own reasons,” Petyr smiled at her, enjoying how she flinched a little.

 

“I’ve felt someone watching me for weeks now,” Alayne said quietly, “I guess I’ve been expecting something like this ever since I left—”

 

She cut herself off and looked away, towards her newly rumpled bed. He watched as she took in the scene he’d been preparing for her.

 

“I’m still waiting for your offer, Alayne.” Petyr couldn’t help but want her deep blue eyes focused on him, wanted to watch as every emotion she felt flitted in and out of them. He hadn’t seen eyes that expressive since… Well, it had been a long time.

 

“I’m sorry, I don’t have anything; everything I have of value is in this flat. They took everything else!” Her voice had taken on a deliciously desperate edge.

 

“Oh? And who might “they” be, Alayne? I’m ripe for a story, sweetling, and I’ve been aching to know yours for weeks now. My clients, varied though they are, are rarely forthcoming, you see.”

 

“You mean… That’s it? I tell you why I think you’re here to kill me and you let me go? Is that going to be enough?”

 

She was wary, and rightfully so. He’d only begun to bargain, after all.

 

“No, sweetling, you tell me your story, and then I’ll make my decision.”

 

"To kill me?”

 

“To kill you, or…”

 

He gazed at her, and she gazed back, bravely meeting his eyes for the first time since they began their dance.

 

“Or?”

 

“Or… If I’m going to help you kill them. For a price, of course.”

 

She laughed bitterly. “Of course.” 

 

* * *

 

 

By the green waters of the Thames

suddenly people drop down.

https://lyricstranslate.com/en/die-moritat-von-mackie-messer-ballad-mack-knife.html

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I saw Hugh Jackman perform in concert recently, and he sang "Mack the Knife"! I just about died of happiness (and Hugh Jackman)!


End file.
